


Hunger

by flybynight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybynight/pseuds/flybynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But he is at ease because as unwilling as he is to admit it, he feels safe and loved. And wanted. Wanted more than those silly hamburgers or milkshakes or whatever other junk the handsome fool enjoys forcing down his gullet, most certainly. But even more than that, wanted completely, every last part of him, every last breath."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

**A/N:** So, um, I have no excuse for this, at all. I wanted smut, so I wrote it. This is my first offering to the fandom, despite being a long time lurker. I hope it's not too terribly odd.   
 **Warnings:** Rimming, oral, that's pretty much it. 

 

It starts as a slow burn at the base of his spine. Because that's where Alfred always starts, and Arthur's breath hitches only a little-- just a bit, honestly, truly--in anticipation. The fire spreads outward, flames dancing across his skin, before narrowing to a path as if following a trail of explosives, and the sensations certainly do feel that way, rock him as he tries desperately to remain solid and still.  
  
The path is followed down, down over the soft curve of his ass and between, the only soft part of him body and mind alike it seemed, a joke that past lovers and his present have all told, and one he's ignored every time. After all, he noted wryly to those same jokers every now and again, that was usually the only part of him people seemed to be interested in. Alfred shamelessly never denies it, though Arthur knows (and... hopes) that this is not the case. But he does spend an awful lot of time touching it, molding his hands over it, as he does now.  
  
With one finger, Arthur traces a nonsense pattern against the bed sheet, not looking, too busy trying to grasp onto any thought in his head even as he feels his cheeks spread, and the first touch of warm air against his pucker. He thinksabout something like how nice the weather was today and how pleasant it was for Alfred to come visit so close to the holiday, perhaps he could stay a little longer this time, oh Alfred, always surprising him, always showing up out of no where looking as though he stepped off the pages of some magazine, or perhaps right now, from a men's underwear catalog, he must have been working out again,  _oh--_  
 _  
_They are cut short by the first brush of that tongue, the one that set his nerves and skin on fire, and he pretends he didn't just tremble as Alfred slides closer, pushing his legs further apart. Arthur is on his stomach, which makes the angle a little more difficult, but Alfred is gripping the backs of his hips and doesn't seem bothered or hindered in any way. He flattens his tongue and swirls it wetly, making a soft noise of appreciation that is just as stimulating.  
  
"Oh god..." Arthur breathes, taking in an almost painful, shuddering breath,  fingers no longer tracing but scratching a little as he fumbles for some sort of composure. His cheeks are burning like the rest of him-- he's not embarrassed, but it is harder and harder to do anything but melt, because it's suddenly very hot. Too hot. Too intense. Too... something like pleasing, but it's not any easier to admit that even in his own head.  
  
Alfred noses his way deeper as his tongue presses experimentally against the little ring of muscle, prodding it mercilessly until it gives way for him. And Arthur arches at the sudden and not at all unwelcome intrusion, feeling that curious and hot little organ spread him, tease him, fill him in an almost perfect way. Almost, because there is something of Alfred's that fills him much better, but these things do take time, and Arthur has always encouraged patience, something his lover has very little of save for when it suits him. Like now, as he takes his sweet time driving him to utter madness with every passing second. Arthur buries his face in his arms and groans, and Alfred answers it with his own, the deep and glutteral sound making his toes curl and his cock twitch between his legs.  
  
But Alfred never forgets about that. It's a feast he wants, he cannot settle for devouring only one part of Arthur. Whether it's his lips and his words as he cuts off any protests or complaints and even praises with kisses, whether it's the soft skin of his neck, his rigid collarbone, always seeking free reign to mark them to his liking. And of course, the more intimate parts of him, which are being explored and worshipped now.  
  
 _Savored_ , is even more apt of a description, he thinks between breathless gasps, like a delicacy. The American is certainly no stranger to food (good, bad, healthy, dripping with fat-- it's not as though Alfred hasn't tasted finer cuisines, he simply chooses to eat what he does, because he's  _America_ , and that's all there is to it), but he does not know moderation. His insatiable hunger is well known in nearly all parts of the world. What they do not know, is that it is even greater when he is with Arthur, and it is not for anything but _him_.  
  
Arthur believes that he is perhaps most at ease when he's in such a vulnerable state, being "eaten" as one might call it, though the term makes him feel dirty, so he never uses it, even though it is really the best way to describe what Alfred does with his  _mouth_  down there,  _good god_ \--  But he is at ease because as unwilling as he is to admit it, he feels safe and loved. And wanted. Wanted more than those silly hamburgers or milkshakes or whatever other junk the handsome fool enjoys forcing down his gullet, most certainly. But even more than that, wanted completely, every last part of him, every last breath. He could not ask for more than that, really, even if all shame and modesty are lost to him.  
  
How could he claim to have any such thing as he lifts his hips off the bed, pushing back, back, back, murmuring and gasping nonsensical things. Alfred understands them as ' _faster'_ , ' _more_ ', and ' _deeper_ ', and readily complies. Alfred always understands.  
  
Alfred pulls out of the little opening, but the assault does not end there. Rather, his licks become broader, longer as each sweep of his tongue reaches Arthur's testicles, before rolling them on its surface. He sucks on them, almost gently, tasting, before kissing his way back to the pucker, and Arthur can feel him smile against the hypersensitive skin as he notices the Englishman's legs starting to shake. His lover is rather terrible, honestly, as he only forces him higher on his trembling knees. Arthur has some idea of what is to come, but he merely holds his breath as he feels the bed shift, and Alfred has flipped onto his back, sliding his head just underneath him, and that overwhelming heat suddenly condenses around the head of his cock.  
  
Arthur swallows a scream, little gasps and groans (so pathetic, really, embarrassing) giving way to shamelessly loud moans, as Alfred is even more merciless now, even more frenzied as he draws him further into his mouth and nearly chokes himself.  
  
 _Silly boy, never knows how to pace himself, he never changes, no matter what he's doing, no matter how long or how many times he does this--_  is what Arthur would have thought, had any he any mind left to do so. Right now he is more focused on the suction, and the blasted heat that threatens to consume him just as Alfred does his cock, every part of his mouth working around him. The sounds he makes are positively obscene, greedy, hungry, and loud, and they do nothing to cover up Arthur's cries. All in all it's the most scandalous and most beautiful thing in the world to him, how they sound  _together_.  
  
He cums and stifles his cry, more like a curse, by biting down on the rumpled sheets beneath him. Alfred milks him for every last drop, until Arthur whines a bit in his throat. When he lets go and moves out from under him, the Englishman crumples into a perfectly sated heap, and Alfred crawls up next to him to smile. It's a cheeky little thing, but Arthur can't manage much of anything in response except to allow himself to be pulled into his arms and kissed soundly on the mouth. It should have been disgusting, but even amidst the still lingering traces of his release, he tastes Alfred the most, and it is like a sweet nectar that he cannot help but seek more of. All of him is tired, but his tongue fights and tangles with his lover's, leaving them both rather breathless and weak. Alfred can't stop touching him and Arthur can't stop kissing him, and it is a long time before they break apart to stare at one another. The younger looks like he's thinking about something.  
  
"What's wrong, love?" Arthur whispers, and doesn't even care that his voice is still so obviously thick.  
  
Alfred looks at him and the corners of his lips curve up into a smirk.  
  
"I'm still hungry, Arthur."  
  
That's the only warning he gets before he's rolled onto his back, and Arthur laughs, chest tight for many reasons, but mostly for the love of this great fool who hovers over him and looks at him like one would a banquet set before them after having not eaten for days. But there is a love, a reverence, a passion that cannot quite be described, and Arthur doesn't really need to, it's all written in the way those hands move over his skin tenderly.  
  
And he feels so full. So very full.

 

**A/N:** Predictable ending is predictable. /cough Anyway, I love comments!


End file.
